Nick Ryan - PI
Table of Contents
Prologue …… Introduction …………… Page 2
Chapter -1 … Beginnings …………..… Page 3
Chapter -2 …... Boat Thieves …………... Page 16
Chapter -3 …... McArdle ………….…..... Page 27
Chapter -4 …... Fire At The Rag Shop …. Page 39
Chapter -5 ……Revere Beach ……….…. Page 48
Chapter -6 …... Brinks Two ……………. Page 57
Chapter -7 ….. Mystic Jumper ……….… Page 66
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Nick Ryan - PI
- Prologue -
It was the 1970’s and Nick Ryan had just opened his detective agency at Admiral Hill on the Chelsea waterfront, across from Boston Harbor. Although he had a few real clients he mostly did surveillance work, following cheating husbands and wives. Hired by a new mayor who vows to clean up the city of corruption. Nick finds himself in an uphill battle with the local mafia and greedy politicians controlling the purse strings.
Adding to the political inferno, the city is faced with the aftermath of a new fire in 1973 that burned 18 city blocks and started in the same rag shop area as the earlier fire of 1908. Was this arson or just a waiting tinderbox?
Months later, Nick is hired to guard a local bank and under his nose, a heist takes place with the thieves vanishing into thin air or instead under the street in the sewer tunnels. As he pieces together all the evidence, we follow him around the city to local restaurants, pool halls, clubs, bars, and dark alleys and get a real taste of city life from one crime to the next. Where will the telltale clues lead?
***
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Nick Ryan - PI
- Chapter One -
* Beginnings *
By
Mark K. Ryan
A small crowd gathered outside Harry Wong’s house after dark. They were carrying torches and signs, and yelling out racial slurs, “Chinks not wanted.” … “Go back to China.” … “No room for Slant Eyes”. Getting closer, they began throwing rocks.
Harry peeked out the window and saw the crazed mob. They all wore masks to hide their faces. Harry’s wife and children were inside watching TV and immediately terrified. Harry told his family to stay away from the windows, turn off the lights, and gather together in the interior hallway. The hall was in the middle of the house and provided some protection from thrown objects and breaking glass.
Harry called the police but they were slow to respond. It took them twenty minutes to arrive at the house, although the police station was only a few blocks away. Before the police arrived the crowd quickly dispersed as if they were never there. However, all the neighbor’s house lights came on and they were aware of what had just happened and appeared at their doorways and windows. The police finally arrived and questioned Harry about the incident. They also interviewed neighbors who verified what happened but didn’t want to be identified for fear of retaliation.
Harry Wong was a new candidate for the mayoral elections in Chelsea along with several other ethnic minorities. He knew it would be an uphill battle but not one that would threaten his family like this.
The election polls in Chelsea were buzzing as usual. It was 1970 and votes were bought through promises of handouts and graft. An army of volunteers was stationed outside each polling precinct to persuade voters to cast their ballot for the next mayor, sometimes urged with physical threats. Political signs were posted everywhere, plastered on windows, walls, or telephone poles.
Many of the current aldermen would put the squeeze on local businesses to vote for their candidate of choice. After all, when those businesses applied for their next vendor's license at city hall, they wanted to make sure the path was easy. Greasing the alderman’s palm with a few dollars always helped.
I remember mayoral candidates from the past included names like Voke, Margolis, McLaughlin, Maresco, and Quigley. However, a new slate of wannabes now appeared on the ballot, as the demographics had changed. The new names on the ballot depicted the ever-growing ethnic population of Asian, Spanish, and Black with the current choices, Wong, Gomez, and Johnson respectively. Voting took place at various schools located around the city like the Williams, Saint Rose, Shurtleff, and Cary Schools.
When I was a young boy in the 1960s, my dad had a sign shop on Division Street called Allied Signs. It was located at the end of Division and stopped at the shipyard near Williams Street. During election season, the politicians would stop at the shop and order hundreds of cardboard signs and expect Dad to make them for free. After some arm twisting, he squeezed out a small profit, slightly above the cost of materials for each sign. Hopefully, the politician would return the favor later.
Single signs were done freehand with an artist brush but multiple signs with the same text were done by a silkscreen process. The paint was squeezed through a silkscreen, fixed with cutout letters on acetate film, onto a cardboard blank. The wet signs would then be hung on a clothesline to dry. The lines crisscrossed every available space in the shop.
Dad has since passed on and now the sign-making process is done elsewhere at companies with giant printing presses. However, I still have fond memories of the frantic days working late into the night.
Dad worked hard when he worked. However, my Mom had a hard time keeping him out of the bar next door. He had some rough days with anxiety and stress, most likely caused by a nervous condition from his time in the service, during WWII. He married my Mom in the early 1940s and then was drafted.
Stationed in war-torn Europe, he was in constant fear of the bombs dropping all around him. The sirens would blare to take shelter and people would run for cover. However, being on the front lines he was expected to run toward the fighting, rather than away.
Dad returned home from the war in 1945 with many others and was greeted with a hero’s parade that celebrated the end of the war. He soon got work as a longshoreman working at the docks, unloading ships. Later, he got a job as a sign painter for various companies and then started his own business. During those early years, he suffered from shell shock, chronic anxiety, and restless sleep. He would be easily startled, have night sweats and rashes broke out on his arms. As a young boy, I remember hearing him scream late at night from a nightmare, as I lay startled in the next bedroom.
To calm his tension and stress he began drinking and spending more time in the bar than at work. Although my Mom gave him support, the bar next door was like a giant magnet.
Eventually, he got some medical help from the VA and began to work more regularly. My Mom described him as a handsome man, five foot eleven with brown hair and hazel eyes, a big wide nose, and a ruddy complexion. He always greeted you with a wide smile and a firm hand shack.
He was fastidious about his looks and always made a good impression with sign shop customers. Each day he was clean-shaven and wore Old Spice cologne. To illustrate his professionalism when greeting new customers, he wore a starched dark green uniform, tailor-made with the Allied Sign logo embroidered on the pocket and tucked neatly in his pants.
***
When I was in high school, I worked for Dad after school each day and like clockwork, Dad had lunch at Maxie’s Bar and Grille on Central Avenue. On weekends, I joined him for lunch and we would sit at a booth in the bar area. Sometimes he had a helper named Frenchy who joined us.
Frenchy was a skinny short fella, about five foot one in height, and a chain smoker. He liked Camel cigarettes and you could see the brown stain on his fingers and lips from the nicotine. His face was wrinkled and weathered from a hard life. He always wore a fedora hat with a small feather stuck in the hatband. He was French Canadian and moved to Chelsea in the early 1950s and mostly worked at odd jobs. He hung around the local bars and especially the Alpine Lodge at the corner of Winnisimmet and Williams Street, near my Dad’s sign shop.
When he spoke he slurred his words which made it difficult to hear what he said. With a few drinks in him, the slurring was more prevalent. Howwww youuuu doinnnn sonny? Wannttt a dwinkkkk? He mumbled.
However, the next morning he was wide awake, ready to work. “Bonjour, Monsieur Nicky,” he would say when I showed up at the shop. I would respond with “Bonjour, ca va?” and we would both laugh like we were French royalty.
Fortunately, Frenchy was always at the bar when Dad needed an extra pair of hands to help lift a sign and place it on the building. He treated Dad like a brother and vice versa.
When the waitress took our lunch order at Maxie’s, Dad got corned beef on dark rye with a bottle of Bud. While waiting for the food, Dad lit a cigarette and offered one to both of us. It was the real man’s cigarette, Pall Mall, unfiltered. After choking on my first drag, I eventually got the hang of it. When the waitress returned with the drinks, we all thanked her and Frenchy added “Merci Mademoiselle”. I smiled. After lunch, Dad always paid the bill and left a good tip for the waitress.
My Dad had his faults like all of us, but I loved him for the caring soul he was. He was always there with good advice and a shoulder to cry on. He would spend his last dollar to make you happy.
During my free time, I took up weightlifting and bodybuilding. In a few years, I had developed some good muscle tone and still helped Dad after school. I was now six feet tall, with black hair, brown eyes, 220 pounds, and all muscle.
That was the year I graduated high school and thought I would just work full-time for Dad. However, Dad got really sick and passed on from a heart attack.
It was 1968 and as luck would have it, I got drafted into the Navy. The Vietnam War was still in full swing. After boot camp, I signed up for the military police called masters-at-arms in the Navy and had some training in police work. During my service, I learned how to fight using karate and got good at using handguns. Dressed for MP Duty, I was always clean-shaven, wore old spice cologne, a starched and pressed uniform, and shined shoes. Just like Dad.
Although I was stationed mostly on ships and docked at protected harbors, I was constantly thinking about how my Dad got the shell shock - a nervous condition from his war service and when I might get it. Luckily, I got a different set of genes when they shuffled the cards. However, just thinking about shell shock made me nervous. Fortunately, after my two-year required service, I returned to civilian life, unscathed and started looking for work.
Upon my return, I had a hard time finding a decent job and was treated poorly by employers. Unlike the vets from WWII who were treated as heroes, I was treated like scum. We were losing the war in Vietnam in 1970 and there were constant war protests. As a result, the vets took the brunt of all the animosity. When vets gave a peace sign to protesters, it was returned with the middle finger. That certainly deflated your self-esteem and made you feel like dirt.
I eventually got some day labor jobs and lived back at my Mom’s house for a while and then got a cheap two-room apartment on Medford Street in Chelsea. It was a cold-water flat with just cold water piped to the kitchen sink. You got hot water by lighting a gas-fired stack in the corner of your apartment that fed hot water to the sink. One of the great modern miracles of the time.
After some unsuccessful days of job hunting, I would stop at the local gin joints, just like Dad did, and sometimes drank too much. To change the bar scenery each night, I stopped at Cutlers Cafe, then Heller’s, then Maxie’s, then the Brown Jug, then the Alpine, and finally slumming at the Zoo Saloon. There was a bar on every corner of the city. During my bar travels, I got to meet a lot of local people. Some were vagrants and others were vets out of work. Whenever I could, I would slip a few dollars to my beer buddies or buy them a pack of smokes. Even today, I can’t pass by a street person without talking with them and getting a sense of their well-being. ‘For the grace of God, that could be me,” Always, flashes in my head.
In addition to my beer buddies, I also met some great young ladies and was not wanting for a date on Friday night. My selection of damsels in distress varied as I frequented different bars. Since we were all in the same economic status, these were cheap dates. We might share a pizza or club sandwich with a beer and some great conversation. However, the night sometimes ended with a nightcap at my place.
While at these classy joints, I picked up a few odd jobs doing security work and detective investigating. The detective work was mostly to tail cheating husbands or wives. I took photos with a telescopic lens and recorded the cheater’s activities with a 35mm camera. After a while, I got pretty good at the job and opened a detective agency, and got my official Private Investigator (PI) license with an open-carry gun permit.
***
During those tumultuous times, there were a lot of street fights, unemployment, and another Chelsea fire, where 18 city blocks burned. The fire occurred in 1973 and lots of people were now without a place to live. Just like the last Chelsea fire in 1908, this one started in the rag shops on Second Street. Here, the houses were all densely packed, only a few feet apart, and were a tinderbox waiting to ignite. Second Street was where all the junk shops were located for collecting recycled goods like rags, paper, metal, and wood.
In those years, I moved around a lot looking for the next cheap apartment. A few years later, I upgraded to a more ritzy neighborhood and got an apartment at Admiral’s Hill in Chelsea. It was the old naval hospital down near the waterfront which was renovated into apartments. In the 1970s at Admiral Hill, there were apartments ranging in price from $100 to $200 per month.
I worked out a deal with the apartment management and got a two-bedroom on the top floor for $100 per month, which included doing some security work for the apartment complex. The rent also included a small office on the first floor for the Ryan Detective Agency. It was really a converted storeroom and I hung my sign on the door. However, it was a start and I had a fluid clientele which meant sometimes I worked and sometimes not.
However, the view from my top-floor apartment was worth a million dollars. On a clear day, I could see Boston Harbor for miles with all the boat traffic. Below my outside deck, I could see the Chelsea Yacht Club at the end of Broadway and at the foot of my apartment building. There you could take the ferry across the harbor, only 1 mile by boat to Atlantic Avenue in Boston but 20 miles by car. Knowing the ferry boat captain also got me a free boat pass.
In my free time, I taught a class at the local YMCA in Self Defense for young teens. Teaching them first how to avoid conflict, I then taught them simple Karate defense moves to disable their attacker without injury. My real goal was to build self-esteem. Most of my students became polite young gentlemen and treated others with respect and kindness. If I saw them on the street, we would greet each other with a simple Karate bow.
***
During those years, the city was deep into corruption. The Boston Mafia had its hand into all the illegal activity and took a cut from all the money transactions. Loan sharking, gambling, prostitution, drugs, and gun-running were rampant. Everyone working for the city had their hand in the till, including the local politicians, police, and fire department.
However, a new breed of politicians made promises to clean up the corruption and put their names on the voting ballot. Of course, they put their lives on the line and were threatened by their fellow pols as well as the mafia. Sometimes the threats were physical with beatings and injury.
One of the new candidates, Harry Wong, vowed to clean up the city. As time went on, you could tell that he really meant it. At his political rallies, he had strong support and the crowds grew to hundreds. The city residents were just tired of the corruption.
However, the local criminal element couldn’t let Harry win the election and sent threatening messages to Wong and his family. His children were bullied at school, his wife was assaulted at the supermarket and vandals threw rocks at their house.
Although he knew that his clean slate campaign would ruffle a few feathers he didn’t expect it to be this bad. Not knowing where to turn, he contacted the Ryan Detective Agency to provide security for himself and his family.
After meeting with Harry Wong, I formed a plan to hire a few bodyguards and protect the family from harm. The guards followed the family to school, shopping, and work and sent a message that the trouble makers would be dealt with.
Harry even contacted the local police about the threats to his family but they dragged their feet and were slow to respond. After all, they were in on the corruption too.
On several nights, vandals on motorcycles drove by Harry Wong’s house and threw rocks at the house windows and firebombs outside. Harry immediately called the police and fire department who took their time in arriving. Before they arrived, Harry put out the fire with a garden hose. The security guard I had on duty at Harry’s house gave chase by car but lost sight of the fleeing motorcycles. The next day, Harry sent his family to live with relatives out of state, for protection.
I called a friend at the FBI and he said his hands were tied since no federal crime was committed for which there was hard evidence. However, he said privately there was an investigation going on that he couldn’t tell me about, but a big bust was imminent.
Luckily, the security guard that I had on duty was smart enough to take some rapid photos of the escaping motorcycles and we were able to get close-up shots of the riders. On one rider’s wrist, I saw a dragon tattoo that linked him to the Chinatown Dragon’s, a gang from Boston.
The next day, I told Harry to meet me at Wing’s Chinese Restaurant on Broadway so we could discuss possibilities. I also asked my friend who managed the restaurant to meet us there at 1:00 PM. Don’t laugh but my friend's name was Charlie Chan and we were old Navy buddies. Although his name sounds like that of an old movie actor, there was no relationship.
At 1:00 PM, I met Harry outside Wings and we went inside. The place was always busy but luckily I had made a reservation. Being the restaurant manager, Charlie had reserved a quiet table for us in a separate dining room.
I showed Charlie Chan the tattoo photograph and he confirmed it was from the Chinatown Dragons. He also said he had a friend in Chinatown that might help identify the rider. His friend worked at Bob Lee’s Islander Restaurant in Boston and we could meet there to discuss the situation. A few days later, we had a meet scheduled for 2:00 PM at Bob Lee’s, at 20 Tyler Street in Boston.
I called Harry and Charlie and told them that I would pick them up at 1:00 PM in front of Wing’s Restaurant in my 1969 Blue Chevelle. I loved tinkering with cars and bought this one from an old couple in Wilmington. It had a few dents and was just gathering dust. I cleaned it all up and gave it a new paint job with dark metallic blue paint. I also dropped in a revamped SS 307cc V8 engine with 200 HP and quad exhausts. It ran quiet but you could hear me coming when I revved it up.
Picking up Charlie and Harry, I drove over to Boston through the Sumner Tunnel. We were there in no time and I parked near a fire hydrant in front of Bob Lee’s. Getting out, I put my official (fake) Boston Police Detective Bureau sign on the inside windshield, as I noticed a meter maid writing parking tickets up the street.
At the entrance to the restaurant, we asked for Wayne Lee and told the maitre-d’ that we had an appointment. Wayne came out and invited us to his office for privacy. Wayne was the grandson of owner Bob Lee.
After explaining the situation and how a motorcycle rider attacked Harry’s house and that we recognized the Dragon tattoo, Wayne said he would take care of it. Although he ran a clean business, Wayne’s cousins were Dragon gang members and he had strong family ties.
Wayne ordered some food for us to eat and drink while he made some phone calls. We could hear him speaking on the phone in Mandarin, a dialect of Chinese. The food came and included chicken wings, egg foo young, moo goo gai pan and egg rolls. To drink we had some Chinese tea and sake.
Wayne returned after a few minutes and told us that the motorcycle rider was a gun for hire. A group from Wilmington paid to have the vandalism and firebombing done on the Wong family. Wayne Lee said that he called his cousins from the Dragons and that the matter was taken care of. There would be no more threats to the Wong family.
Wayne then said, “Now enjoy your food as a gift from me and consider the matter done with.” We all said thank you with the greatest appreciation and continued eating our meal as Wayne Lee left to attend to other business.
When we returned to my car parked outside by the hydrant, there were no tickets on the windshield. However, you could see the yellow parking tickets on other cars up and down the street. As we got in the car, a passing policeman said, “Have a nice day Lieutenant.” I waved back. Lucky for me he didn’t ask for my police ID, which I didn’t have. I then took the Boston Police Detective Bureau sign off the windshield and put it back in the glove box with all the other fake signs.
***
With most of the matter now dealt with, I drove back to Chelsea and dropped off Charlie and Harry at Wing’s restaurant and decided to go to the ‘Y’ to wind down with a steam bath, a workout and some basketball. I parked my car at city hall in the employee parking lot and put my Chelsea Employee Sign on the dashboard. There was a ready-made stack of fake parking signs always available in the glove box. I then walked over to the YMCA which was on the corner of Shurtleff and Grove Street. I remembered going there as a teenager in the 1950s, where I paid a 10 cents admission fee.
I entered the ‘Y’ and showed my membership card at the front desk. I went downstairs, took a hot shower, a steam bath, a cold shower, and then went for a swim in the small pool, doing my usual 30 laps. Afterward, I went upstairs to the gym and watched the Fire Department basketball team practice. Still, in my gym shorts, my friend Jerry who was a member of the fire department, asked if I wanted to play a few minutes and I jumped at the chance. Running up and down the court for 10 minutes, my heart was pounding like a bongo drum. After an hour, the practice was over and I said goodnight to my firefighter friends. However, I first asked my friend Jerry why the fire department dragged their feet when responding to the fire at Harry Wong’s house. Jerry said, “It wasn’t his call since orders came down from city hall.” I said, “Thanks, I thought so.”
I got changed and started to drive home, but first stopped at Katz Bagel Bakery for some delicious bagels and cream cheese. Katz was located at 139 Park Street at the corner of Congress Avenue. The Bagel Shop has been a family-operated business since 1938. I got a half dozen bagels and took them home to my apartment at Admiral Hill. I’d have a couple bagels tonight and save the rest for breakfast tomorrow unless a midnight snack called for me. But first things first, I made a coffee and sat out on my balcony, eating bagels and watching the sun go down over Boston Harbor. What a life.
The End
***
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Nick Ryan - PI
- Chapter Two -
*Boat Thieves*
By
Mark K. Ryan
A small boat quietly eased its way out of Chelsea harbor. With no running lights, the boat was not visible from shore. Onboard, there were two men, a driver and deckhand wearing Balaclava face masks to shield their identity.
As the boat approached Chelsea Yacht Club - CYC, the driver counted the slips, stopped at number four, and tied up next to a cabin cruiser with the name 'Love Dove'. The slips were at a floating dock that moved up and down with the tide.
The deckhand got out of the small boat, untied the dock lines for the Love Dove, pushed it away from the floating dock, and jumped on board.
Once free from the slip, the small boat quietly towed the Love Dove out into the harbor, as the deckhand safely steered.
Away from the dock, the deckhand put a key in the ignition and started the Love Dove. With both boats free of each other, they quietly navigated out of Chelsea Harbor and disappeared into the night.
At daybreak, the owner of the Love Dove arrived to see his boat gone and reported it to the local police, CYC management, and the Coast Guard. It was the third boat stolen from CYC in the last few months. Looking for a scapegoat, the CYC management accused the bosun mate, Hank Ginelli of the theft. He had access to all the keys and took care of the club boats.
***
Hank argued with CYC management that he didn't do it, but they were convinced that he was the culprit. After all, Hank had worked at the yacht club for the last few years and was responsible for all the maintenance of club-owned boats, and had easy access to everything. Hank looked like the boating type with his bright white boat sneakers and blue denim pants and shirt.
The boat president Steve Casey, called Hank into the office and said, “Hank, we have to let you go while we figure out who is responsible for the recent boat thefts.” Steve looked down at his desk and straightened his tie while trying not to make eye contact.
Hank responded, “What? How can you accuse me? I have been a loyal worker for years.” Hank’s arm began twitching. It was a nervous habit he picked up in the Navy.
Casey replied, “Yea, I know and that’s why I am so surprised.”
Hank answered, “Well, doesn’t my years of service count for anything?” Hank twitched again.
Casey replied, “Your right, but someone saw you here, late at night.”
Hank said, “That’s my job. I live close by and sometimes check to make sure the gate is locked and that the boats are all tied up properly, especially during high tides.”
Casey answered, “I can’t say who but someone saw you drive away with one of the stolen boats. So, until we figure this all out, we have to let you go. Don’t come in tomorrow. Bill will be taking your job for a while.”
Hank answered, “Now I know. The secretary Helen has been itching to get her husband a job here at CYC. So this is all an s-s-set … u-u-p." Hank twitched and stuttered again.
Hank walked out of Casey’s office and slammed the door.
***
Living in the neighborhood, Hank use to hang around the yacht club as a teenager and helped some of the boat owners with small chores, like washing or painting their boats. He even learned how to fix small boat engines and could take them apart and put them back together like new. He knew more about the yacht club than the management. The boat owners trusted him like family.
It broke Hank’s heart that Casey took the word of Helen over his. Not able to convince CYC, he ended up at the local beer joints drowning out his sorrows, hoping that it would all vanish like a bad dream.
On Friday night, I met Hank at the Alpine Lodge on the corner of Division and Williams Streets. We were old friends and often had a few beers together at the end of the week. Hank leaned on the bar with his blue denim shirt sleeves rolled up and his white sneakers resting on the bar stool support.
Hank was getting drunker by the minute. Slurring his words, he told me that he was accused of stealing some boats from the Chelsea Yacht Club where he worked but swears that he didn't do it.
Hank stuttered, “They l-let …… m-m-me go at the C-Y-C.. Those bastards,
t-t-they took the word of the secretary over m-m-mine.”
***
Hank and I were friends from high school and joined the Navy at the same time. He became a bosun mate, fixing and maintaining Navy boats and I joined the military police which is called the Master-At-Arms in the Navy and learned about criminal justice in the armed forces.
After his tour in the Navy, Hank stayed in Chelsea and got a job at the local yacht club fixing small boats. The Chelsea Yacht Club - CYC was located at the end of Broadway on the waterfront.
When I got out of the Navy I got my PI - Private Investigator's Licence and started my detective agency in Chelsea. As a PI, most of my work involved tailing cheating husbands or wives. At least it paid the bills. The job also included using my 35 mm camera with a telephoto lens to capture their activities from a distance. After a while, I got pretty good at it and tried other detective-type jobs involving security and privacy protection. Sometimes, I would do Pro-Bono jobs for friends who were down on their luck.
Meeting clients I always wore a dark blue sport coat with a white open-color shirt, light brown khaki slacks, and Hollywood sunglasses. However, after hours I changed into blue denim jeans and wore a black leather jacket with my favorite Boston Red Sox baseball cap. My father gave it to me and said that Ted Williams gave it to him at a ball game at Fenway Park when Dad caught a Ted William's home run. Later, Dad told me he won the hat in a card game, which I always leave out in conversation.
***
After Hank told me his story I said, "Wow, I knew you worked at the yacht club and had a good reputation for troubleshooting boat problems but never thought they would fire you."
Hank replied, “Yea, things w-w-were going good until last week when another boat was stolen and they accused me.” Hank stuttered and twitched.
I answered, “Do they have any evidence that it was you?”
Hank continued, "W-W-Well, I'm the Bosun there, maintaining the boats, and have access to all the b-b-boat keys. The management told me that the b-b-boat keys were missing for each of the three boats taken and I was the last p-p-person at the club on the night of the thefts. Besides, someone saw me. I think it was the secretary
H-H-Helen.”
I replied, "That's mostly circumstantial evidence. But if someone saw you, that's proof. It looks like they set you up."
As we talked some more, Hank began to twitch, slur, and stutter every time he took a sip of beer. He reminded me of my Dad who also had a nervous habit.
Hank caught himself twitching and said, “Sorry for the twitch but I think I have a nervous condition called S-S-Shell … S-S-Shock from my time in the Navy.”
Hank continued, "I saw the ship's doctor while I was stationed in
H-H-Hawaii and he gave me some meds back then, which helped a b-b-bit. He said my medical condition was c-c-claustrophobia brought on by the fear of small confined spaces on board ships. Especially when I was stationed on subs for a while with tight quarters. I think it has started up again since I got fired from my j-j-job.”
I replied, “That’s OK. My Dad had it too from his time in WWII and he got some help from the VA. Unfortunately, he tried to battle his nerves by drinking too much and ended up at the local bars each night after work. I don’t think you want to do that. Maybe you should go to the VA hospital and get some treatment. I think your Navy medical benefits last a lifetime.”
Hank said, "Yea, my g-g-girlfriend keeps telling me to do that. Maybe I'll try next week. In the meantime, can you help me find out who stole the b-b-boats ?"
“Sure,” I said. “Maybe you can show me around the Yacht club tomorrow and introduce me to some of your friends there.”
***
I met Hank at 9:00 AM at the entrance to the CYC, Chelsea Yacht Club. It was at the end of Broadway on the waterfront. As a club member, Hank still had privileges and access to the club docks and meeting rooms. Hank first took me to the floating dock and showed me all the boats tied up in their slips. We passed some of his friends along the way who shook his hand and said, "Everything will work out."
As we walked, Hank pointed to a new guy working at the dock and said, “That’s B-B-Bill, he is the secretary’s husband and he got hired right after I was
f-f-fired. I think the secretary had already planned it. Bill now has access to all the
k-k-keys.”
Avoiding eye contact with Bill, Hank turned and pointed out the empty slips where the boats were stolen. Hank continued, "The stolen b-b-boats were all
s-s-small, less than 20 feet, and could easily be started with a key or hot-wired and driven away in the dead of n-n-night."
Hank also said, “There is a t-t-thriving business for selling small boats, even stolen ones. If you knew what you were doing, you could change the VIN on the boat and motor and reassign fake ones.”
When we got to the end of the dock, Hank pointed to a small 15 foot Boston Whaler boat tied at the last slip and said, “That’s my b-b-baby. I take good care of her and she takes care of me.”
After getting a tour of the club, I said to Hank, "I need to see who comes and goes at all hours of the day and night. To do that, I'll set up a camera from my apartment at Admiral Hill which is right next to the yacht club, at the end of Broadway, and take telescopic photos. I'll also put another camera on your boat with a timer taking photos at half-hour intervals."
In addition, I continued, "I'll put a hidden camera in the office where the boat keys are kept. The camera will be concealed in a book, placed on a nearby shelf. It will be triggered by a switch placed under the floor rug."
Hank's eyes lit up when he heard my plan and he said, "This s-s-sounds like the movie, 'I Spy' ".
I replied, “Yea, I have all the equipment they use on that 1965 TV show. However, I don’t make the big bucks that those actors make, like Robert Culp and Bill Cosby.”
***
After a week of surveillance, there was nothing suspicious on the hidden cameras. However, on the second week, the new guy Bill was caught on film taking one of the boat keys at the office and passing it to a man in a parked car outside.
Later that night, the telephoto camera on my balcony at Admiral Hill captured a small boat approaching the CYC floating dock at 2:00 AM when a man jumped to one of the docked boats. Within minutes, one of the CYC docked boats were untied, quietly pushed out of the slip, and towed by the small boat out of Chelsea Harbor.
Luckily, I didn’t have to wait and develop the camera film since I was also looking at the activity with my night vision binoculars. I had set up a night watch schedule with Hank to alternate shifts and watch from my balcony. It was my shift and Hank was sleeping on my sofa.
I quickly came in from the balcony and shook Hank and said, “Wake up. You have to see this.” We both ran back out to the balcony and looked through night vision binoculars at the boats moving out of the harbor. Hank said, “Didn’t I tell
y-y-you. Those bastards blamed me and here they are doing it again.”
Seeing the boats leave, I immediately called the Chelsea Police, the Harbor Master, and the Coast Guard. Already on night duty, the Coast Guard spotted the boats leaving the harbor. Watching from a distance with night vision binoculars, they followed the boats out of Chelsea harbor to a dock in Winthrop and called the local Winthrop Police. Within a few minutes, the Coast Guard and the Winthrop Police were at the dock.
The Winthrop Police patrol car pulled up to the dock with lights flashing as the coast guard boat blocked the stolen boat from leaving the harbor
The police said over the loudspeaker, "This is the police. Secure your boat at the dock and stand on the dock with hands raised."
The youngest thief Tom said, “OK, we surrender.”
Ben the older thief said, “Shut up. They are only stopping us from not having running lights at night.”
The thieves tied their boats to the dock, plus the stolen one, and the Coast Guard asked for boat registration and boat license. When they couldn’t provide the necessary papers, the police questioned Tom who looked scared and ready to talk.
Tom kept on saying, “They made me do it. They beat me and threatened me.”
With a light shining in his eyes, Tom started crying and said, "Bill and Helen are the leaders of the gang and live on Front Street in Chelsea. The stolen boats are kept in a warehouse off Meridian Street in East Boston.”
Ben shouted, “Shut the fuck up, you cry baby.”
The police confiscated the boats and took them to a police boatyard in East Boston. They also arrested the gang of four thieves and brought them to the Winthrop Police Station.
After securing an arrest warrant, they went to the apartment of Helen and Bill on Front Street in Chelsea and arrested them on conspiracy charges.
***
After the thieves were arrested, they were questioned at the police station. Some demanded a lawyer and some plea-bargained for lighter sentences after revealing the others involved. The young thief Tom immediately implicated the secretary Helen and her husband Bill. Learning this, the police drove over to Bill and Helen's apartment on Front Street and arrested them.
Back at the police station, Tom said he worked at the CYC doing odd jobs and was threatened by Bill to steal the boats. Tom said, “Bill threatened me with my life and said he would break my legs if I didn’t do what he demanded. He even beat me with a club across my legs when we were alone in the tool shed.”
When Helen and Bill were brought back to the station, they were put in adjoining cells next to the other thieves. As soon as they arrived, the other thieves started yelling obscenities at Helen and Bill.
Helen said, “Shut the Fuck up you imbeciles. Don’t say anything. Keep your mouths shut. They don’t have any proof of anything. You can say that you were just taking a joy ride on the boats when they caught you. ”
Tom said, "You are the fucking idiot. The police know everything because I told them. I gave them times and dates. You're not hanging this on me. You planned it all and threatened the rest of us with physical violence and hurting our families."
Bill then chimed in and said, “You’re a dead man Tom. Wait until you end up in the same jail or prison where they put me. You will never be able to sleep without worrying about being stabbed with a shiv.”
Tom yelled back, “The police said they would protect me.”
Bill replied, “Ha, You are just dreaming if you believe their lies.”
The police guard immediately took Tom out of his cell and moved him to another area in a separate interrogation room. Once separated, the detective in charge reassured Tom that he would be protected and kept separated from the other prisoners. The detective also said, “With the right judge, you could serve no jail time and even be put in the Witness Protection Program.”
***
Still excited about what I saw from my third-floor apartment, I made coffee for me and Hank and we wondered what was happening since I called the Coast Guard. A few hours later, I got a call from my friend, Detective Charlie Wilson of the Chelsea police who told me what happened. He said, "Thanks to your call to the Coast Guard, all the thieves have been arrested, including the CYC secretary and her husband Bill. They will spend a long time in jail."
The next day, all the boats were recovered and kept at a secure police boatyard in East Boston. Later, Hank was called to identify the CYC boats and he called me to assist him with the details.
After some negotiation, Hank got his job back at the CYC and was congratulated by all his friends. He also got a raise from the club owners and a public apology.
***
After all the excitement, I dropped Hank off at the CYC where he celebrated with his friends. Knowing that Hank was now safe, I went to the local YMCA to unwind, took a sauna, a shower, used the swimming pool, and did my usual 30 laps. Leaving the ‘Y’, I got some bagels at Katz Bagel Bakery on Pearl Street and went home to Admiral Hill. Out on my balcony, I sipped some black coffee and munched on some bagels and cream cheese. My stomach growled since I hadn’t eaten all day. Taking another bite, I watched the sun go down over the Boston skyline and said to myself, “What a life.”
The End
***
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Nick Ryan - PI
- Chapter Three -
*McArdle Bridge*
By
Mark K. Ryan
It was getting late and Frankie Smith had been working the Johns all night at the Zoo Tavern. The Zoo was located down near the waterfront at the corner of Division and William Streets. Although it was a bar and served drinks to patrons, it was also known as a Cat House where lady’s of the night performed tricks at upstairs rooms. The cheap rooms are rented by the hour, day, or week.
Jack Jingle was the pimp at the Zoo and sat at the end of the bar all dressed up in his bling with flashy red pants, blue shirt, and jeweled straw hat. Jack kept his Hoes all doped up on drugs, waiting for the next fix.
Jack signaled to Frankie for her next trick and introduced her to sailor Sam who had just arrived by ship at the oil tanker docks on Marginal Street. Sam had been out at sea for a few months and was looking for a good time.
Frankie greeted Sam with her sexy voice and rubbed her breasts across his chest. She was dressed in a slinky yellow outfit. Her red hair spilled loosely on her bare shoulders. With a little massage from Frankie, Sam got hard and followed Frankie upstairs to a single room. Dropping his pants at the door, he threw Frankie on the bed and jumped on top. Frankie knew right away that this was going to be a rough ride.
However, Sam was more than rough and penetrated Frankie without any foreplay, grabbing her wrists and pinning her to the bed. With all his weight, he laid on top of her and crushed the breath from her lungs. He was fat and must have weighed 300 pounds. He still had the smell of diesel oil on his soiled work clothes.
Frankie tried to tell Sam to get off, but she couldn’t breathe. Turning slightly to the side, she screamed in his ear and he finally released his grip as she squirmed free and jumped out of bed.
Sam also jumped to the floor and yelled, “What’s the matter bitch, can’t you take it from a real man?”
Frankie yelled back, “Your not a man, you’re just a mean pig.”
Sam said, “That’s how the Hoes like it in Brazil when my ship last docked there three months ago.”
Frankie replied, “Well you got what you paid for. That’s it for tonight pal. Your done.”
Sam grabbed Frankie and smacked her across the face and said, “I’m done when I say so.” Frankie was now bleeding from her lip and had a big bruise on her cheek.
Frankie kicked Sam in the crouch and he fell to the floor as he released her wrist. Now free, she quickly opened the door and ran downstairs confronting her pimp Jack, who was shocked after seeing her bleeding lip.
The bar crowd fell silent and Jack said, “What happened?”
Frankie cried, “That fucking animal Sam is out of control. Call the police.”
Jack said, “Hold on. Let’s not jump to conclusions. We can’t call the police every time there’s a disturbance. The police will close the bar down.”
Frankie looked at Jack in disbelief and said, “Look at my eye and cheek. Isn’t that proof enough?”
Shortly after, Sam came downstairs and screamed at Frankie, “Hey bitch, I’m not done yet.”
Jack said, “You done now pal. We don’t tolerate brutality here.”
Jack signaled to the bouncers sitting at the bar and said, “Throw the asshole out.”
The bouncers jumped off their barstools, grabbed Sam, and threw him out the door.
Frankie said, “Is that all you are going to do? He assaulted me.”
Jack said, “Here’s twenty bucks and a pack of smack. Go home and come back in a few days when it heals.”
Frankie grabbed her things and left crying, as one of the other Hoes held her tight and they walked out the door together.
***
A few days later, I woke up to the sound of truck horns in the distance. The McArdle Street bridge was raised up and the traffic was stopped waiting for some boats to enter Chelsea Harbor. The bridge connected Meridian Street in East Boston with Pearl Street in Chelsea. It was within spitting distance from my apartment at Admiral Hill, located at the end of Broadway on the waterfront in Chelsea.
After making coffee in a percolator pot, I sat out on my balcony eating a Katz bagel and watching an oil tanker enter the harbor. Katz Bagel Bakery made the best bagels and attracted customers from miles around. The big ships unloaded at the oil tank farm on Marginal Street. Inpatient cars and trucks beeped their horns, even though the traffic was at a standstill waiting for the two ends of the bridge to come back down.
Finishing my coffee, I showered, dressed, and took the elevator three floors down to the lobby. Luckily, the elevator was recently repaired but often was out of order for weeks. My office was right next to the elevator and was a converted storage closet with a sign on the door that read, ‘Ryan Detective Agency’.
Reaching in my pocket for the office keys, I noticed the door already opened. Being cautious, I peeked in and saw Frankie behind my desk with a black eye. Suddenly I remembered that I hired her to answer the phone a few nights back while drinking heavily at the Alpine Bar on Winnisimmet Street. Frankie worked as a prostitute at the Zoo Bar across the street, with her pimp Jack taking most of the earnings and being assaulted the night before.
Feeling sorry for her, I remember saying, “You can crash at my office in a pinch. There’s a sofa, coffee pot, and small fridge. I can’t afford much but I’ll give you a few bucks to answer the phone and you can welcome any new clients. I leave my key behind the door sign.”
Frankie smiled and said, “Thanks, I might just do that.”
***
My desk was all cleaned up with files neatly stacked, the floor was swept and the wastebasket emptied. I could also smell the odor of Windex cleaner in the air. A few notes were stuck on the note poke for me to read. Frankie had also listened to all the messages on the answering machine and written down all the important ones with call-back numbers.
I said, “What a pleasant surprise.” Frankie now had some makeup on her black eye that covered most of the bruising.
Frankie said, “Well, I hope you meant it the other night when you hired me to answer the phone.”
Not knowing when my own next paycheck would come in to pay her, I said, “Oh Yea, There is always room at the inn for one more.”
I also said, “Please make some coffee for yourself and there is some cereal in the fridge if you get hungry.”
Frankie replied, “Thanks, I already checked and threw out the sour milk.”
I replied, “My bad. Here is twenty dollars, pick up some milk, cereal, and coffee. I’ll be gone for a few hours and we can talk when I get back.”
***
Sailor Sam had gone back to his ship after getting thrown out of the zoo. His ship was docked at the oil tank farm on Marginal Street in Chelsea. He also had to tend to some personnel business at the ship. He had a crate of Colombian Coffee that he bought in Brazil and made a deal to sell it to local merchants at the Chelsea Produce Market and Villanova Foods on Beacham Street.
The wood crate was 4x4x8 feet and weighed about 500 pounds. Although his ship was an oil tanker, it also had a smaller storage compartment for shipping solid goods. At the Marginal Street dock, the solid goods were first lifted off the ship by booms and hoists and then moved by forklift to a secure area for later pick up by merchants. The merchants had to show official shipping documents to get in and out of the fenced-in secure yard. Hidden inside the coffee crate were 40 kilos of crack cocaine packed inside individual bags of coffee.
After sobering up from his ordeal at the zoo, Sam called a local truck rental company and had a panel truck delivered to the Marginal Street oil taker dock. Showing the delivery guy his identification, he took delivery of the truck, and the driver left in a waiting car back to the truck rental location.
Sam got in the panel truck and drove to the entrance of the shipping yard and stopped at the security gate where he showed his merchant shipping papers for the coffee crate and arranged for a forklift to put the crate into his panel truck.
Once secured inside the panel truck, Sam shut the overhead door and lit a flashlight to check out his crate. He knew that the crack cocaine was in coffee bags that were located behind the second layer of bags in the crate.
After removing the woodside to the crate, he then removed two layers of coffee bags and took out the third bag. Carefully, opening the third bag, he dumped out the loose outer coffee layer to find a hard brick of crack cocaine.
Cutting the cellophane covering, he took the edge of his knife to sample a few small crystals which were off-white to pink in color. The crystal had a sweet floral smell but was somewhat metallic. Putting a few crystals in his mouth they tasted bitter. He then rubbed the crystal on his gums which immediately felt numb. These were all the characteristics of crack but he would have to have it tested and also cut it ten times with other ingredients to increase his profits.
Sam repackaged the coke back into the coffee bag and then put the wood crate back together, so he could move it to his next location. When done, he opened the sliding truck door to get out and drive to his next drop-off place.
Suddenly startled, he saw two men that he knew from the ship, standing on the ground outside the truck holding guns pointed at him. His shipmate Louie said, “Stand back fuck head, we want to see what you got.”
Sam said, “What the fuck are you doing here anyway? How did you get by the security guard?”
Louie answered, “Just like you, we bought some faked jewelry in Brazil and had the crate unloaded here.”
Harry then said, “What do you have in your crate?”
Sam replied, “I bought some coffee in Brazil and I’m just trying to make some money reselling it here in the states. Hopefully, I can make ten times the value.”
“Harry and I don’t believe you,” said Louie.
Sam said, “Look for yourself. I was just checking to see if it was still in good shape before I deliver it to the buyer at the Chelsea Produce Market.”
Louie and Harry climbed up into the truck and Louie said, “Let’s see what you got.”
Sam purposely opened the crate from the other side and took out the first bag of coffee and opened it. He then said, “Here smell it, it’s Colombian Roasted Coffee.”
Louie said, “Let’s look at the other bags.” Harry then pulled out a couple more from the first and second layer but only found coffee.”
Sam said, “See, I told you.”
Louie looked at Harry in disbelief and went to the other side holding a flashlight when something sparkled from the floor reflecting the light. Harry bent down and picked up the sparkling crystals from the floor with a wet finger and tasted it. It was bitter. He wet his finger again with more crystals from the floor and rubbed it on his gums which became numb. Sam had accidentally dropped some crack on the truck floor when he was testing it.
Harry said, “That’s crack. What do you think we’re stupid. Now, where is it?”
Louie began pulling out more bags of coffee from the crate and spilling them on the floor. Eventually, he was at the third row in and opened a bag to find a brick of crack.
Louie turned to Sam and said, “You fucking liar.” And then he shot Sam right through the heart. Sam keeled over and dropped to the floor.
Harry looked at Louie and said, “What the fuck did you do that for? We could have had Sam sell the crack to his buyer and then taken all the cash. Now we have to find our own buyer.”.
Louie said, “I couldn’t let that son of a bitch keep lying to us.”
Harry said, “Let's repackage it all and bring it to his coffee buyer at the Chelsea Produce Market. I bet that’s also his crack contact.”
Harry continued, “In the meantime, we can throw Sam’s body off the dock into the harbor. The tide is coming in and he’ll get washed under the dock and get tangled in all the pilings. The secure fence is too high here, so we’ll have to toss the body in the harbor at the parking lot further down the street.”
***
Harry and Louie repackaged the coffee and threw Sam in the back of the crate covered with packing blankets. After closing the truck rear door, they drove to the security gate and showed the Merchant Packing Slip to the guard. The guard opened the rear door and saw the one crate identified on the shipping papers and then closed the sliding door. The guard then said, “OK, You're good to go.
Harry drove the truck out of the secure area and took a left on Marginal Street towards the McGardle bridge and turned into the first parking area adjacent to the harbor. After parking the truck on the edge of the lot next to the water’s edge, Harry and Louie got out and checked to see that no one was looking.
Opening the truck rear door, they rolled Sam’s body off the back of the truck and it hit the ground with a thud. The body was wrapped in a packing blanket that looked like trash. They then carried the wrapped body to the dock edge which was at least ten feet off the water with the tide coming in. Holding the opposite ends of the blanket, the two men lifted it over the edge and let the dead body roll out. The body splashed on the surface and then sank and disappeared.
***
Harry looked at Louie and said, “Next stop the Chelsea Produce Market and Villanova Foods.” Getting in the truck, they drove out of the parking lot and needed to find their way to the produce market. Not familiar with the area, they stopped to ask for directions and soon drove up to Williams Street.
Unaware of the stop signs at each corner, they drove by each intersection a bit too fast to the sounds of horns blaring and brakes screeching. At the next corner, they were side-swiped by a tractor-trailer, which demolished the panel truck and immediately caught on fire.
Within a few minutes, the fire trucks were at the scene to put out the fire and discovered two dead bodies inside the cab. Harry and Louie were dead from the crash and the truck was a total wreck. After the two bodies were taken away, the truck was towed to a junkyard on Second Street where it sat for days. Scavenging for used truck parts, someone found the coffee crate in the back of the junk truck with its contents. Opening the crate, they found the concealed drugs and contacted the police who contacted the FBI.
After identifying the two dead bodies, the ship authorities were notified and they responded that one other person from their crew was still missing. A few days later, Sam’s body was found floating around the pilings of the McArdle Bridge with a bullet in his head.
***
The FBI now had three dead bodies all from the same ship, one killed by a headshot and two others in a fiery truck accident. Ronny Collins from the FBI was assigned the case and began combing the area for suspects and clues.
Stopping at all the local bars, he eventually ended up at the Zoo and found that Sam had been there and had an incident with Frankie Smith where she was assaulted. With revenge as a motive, Frankie became a prime suspect in the killing of Sam and she was called in to be questioned. Scared, she called Nick Ryan for help.
***
Frankie was being held at the local police station on Broadway near Williams Street. The FBI and Chelsea Police were conducting a joint investigation with agent Ronny Collins from the FBI and detective Charlie Wilson from the Chelsea Police.
Nick Ryan parked his car in the Police Chief’s spot at the police station and put his fake FBI parking permit on the dashboard as he smirked at the private joke. He then walked into the lobby and asked to see detective Wilson.
Agent Wilson came out to the lobby and said, “What are you doing here?”
Nick replied, “Frankie asked me to represent her.”
Wilson commented, “That’s a laugh.”
Nick answered, “The laugh will be on you when I clear her.”
Nick then asked, “Where is the evidence?”
Wilson said, “Witnesses at the Zoo say she was assaulted by Sam and wanted him arrested. When he was let go she took revenge and shot him.”
Nick replied, “Where is the gun?”
Wilson answered, “We haven’t found it yet.”
“Well, with no gun, and just ‘here say’ evidence you have to release her in my custody,” said Nick.
Wilson frowned but knew Nick was right and said, “Wait here. I’ll get her and bring her out.”
When Frankie came out into the police lobby she ran to Nick and hugged him as tears ran down her cheeks. “Thank you for getting me out. Even though I wanted him dead, I didn’t kill him,” said Frankie.
“I know. Let’s get out of here and get you home. Oh yea, you crashed at my place,” said Nick.
***
The next day, FBI agent Ronny Collins called Nick and told him that the truck crash with drugs contained fingerprints evidence from all three guys from the ship, Louie, Harry, and Sam. Also, a gun found on Louie had the same bullets that killed Sam. Evidently, all three guys were involved with the drug smuggling.
Nick immediately called detective Wilson at the Chelsea police station and said, “The last laugh is on you. Sam was killed by a gun found on Louie and all three were from the ship.”
Wilson replied, “I know. My bad. I jumped the gun and looked for the most likely suspect. Please tell Frankie I’m sorry and I’ll make it up to her.”
That night there was a party at the Zoo to welcome Frankie back. Drinks were on the house and the bill was split between Pimp Jack, PI Nick, and Detective Wilson.
Also, Frankie said, “I’m quitting Tricks at the Zoo and going back to secretary school and starting a new career. After all, I have a good-paying job at the Ryan Detective Agency and lots of first-hand experience.”
Nick raised his eyebrows and cheered, “Frankie is going back to school. Hurrah, Hurrah.”
Everyone joined in and sang to the tune of ‘Johnny Goes Marching Home Again’ … Hurrah, Hurrah, Frankie Goes Back To School Again ….” while drinking and cheering again.
****
As always, I went to the ‘Y’ to cool off, took a swim, did my 30 laps, got some bagels at Katz, sipped some wine on my balcony, and watched the sun go down over Boston Harbor.
The End
***
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Nick Ryan - PI
- Chapter Four -
By
Mark K. Ryan
I woke up early this morning as the bright sunshine peaked through my patio window. It was October 1973 and the weather was getting colder every day. Fall was in the air. Crawling out of bed, I put my feet on the floor and walked over to the window to close the drapes. I forgot to shut them last night after drinking a whole bottle of wine, my favorite Pinot Grigio, and just stumbled into bed.
Getting dressed without making coffee, I decided to walk off my hangover and remembered that I was meeting Harry Wong for breakfast. It was his second term as mayor. He wanted to secretly investigate one of his employees. We were to meet at the Apollo Restaurant in Bellingham Square and it was a good mile walk. As I got to the square, I could see the time on the giant tower clock at city hall and on the old fashion post clock at the kiosk in the square. You could also hear church bells in the distance, ringing out the time each hour.
It was 7:00AM when I walked into the restaurant and saw Harry sitting at a booth near the kitchen window. Dishes were clacking as the chefs placed prepared breakfast orders on the high kitchen counter for the waitresses to pick up and bring to customer tables and booths.
I waved to Harry and sat down at his booth. The waitress came over and asked if I wanted coffee as she refilled Harry’s cup. I said yes and she was back with a cup and quickly poured some coffee. I immediately looked at the waitress and pointed to the cup that had lipstick smeared on the rim. She said sorry and replaced it with a clean cup.
Maybe she just wiped the lipstick off with a dishrag? I guess that’s why they called the Apollo, a greasy spoon restaurant but the food was always good.
My Mom always said that you would eat a pound of dirt before you die. That was comforting but I didn’t want to see it. My Mom worked at the Apollo bakery counter when I was younger and she always brought home day-old pastry. I remember licking my fingers after biting into a jelly donut.
Still hungry, I ordered some bacon and eggs with an English muffin and Harry ordered the same. Waiting for our breakfast order, we continued to talk and I asked Harry about the investigation he wanted help with.
Harry had recently been elected mayor after a contentious race. The aldermen were still trying to buy votes at the voting precincts but Harry got his votes honestly. Most residents were tired of the corruption in the city and Harry won by a landslide victory. Harry promised to clean up the city but had a tough row to hoe with all the corruption that had been embedded for years.
One of his first projects was to revamp the second street and get rid of all the dilapidated junk and rag shops. Within a few months, he was able to secure some federal funding and buy up a lot of property by eminent domain and clean out all the old buildings. He also hired a manager to oversee the project by the name of Steve Cohen. Steve was familiar with construction work and dealing with unions. However, Harry found out later that Cohen was taking bribes and was making deals on the side with union bosses.
Taking on the new case, I followed Cohen for a few weeks and found him making payoffs to union reps each Friday night at a bar on Fifth Street. With the evidence in hand, I contacted my friend at the FBI, agent Ronny Collins and showed him my photos. He was surprised that I was able to gather all this info so rapidly and said he would confer with his bosses and set up a sting operation.
Collins had an undercover agent Peter Jenkins pose as an electrician and make friends with the other bribed union reps at the Fifth Street bar. Eventually, he had a drink with Cohen and told him he was looking for work and knew that Cohen was the manager at the new Second Street project.
Cohen told Peter to meet him the next day at the warehouse at 15 Second Street.
The following day, Peter went to the warehouse and saw the door open. He walked inside the empty building and saw Cohen on the far end. As he walked toward Cohen his footsteps echoed in the giant space.
When Peter got close enough, Cohen took a crowbar from behind his back and whacked Peter at the knees. Peter immediately dropped to the floor and said, “What the fuck. Why the hell did you do that?”
Cohen replied, “Who put you up to this? Why are you snooping around in my business?”
Ready to strike again, Cohen raised the crowbar over his head.
Still lying on the floor, Peter put up his hands to protect himself and yelled, “Stop, I’m just looking for work.”
“How did you know about this project,” said Cohen.
Peter answered, “I heard the guys at the bar talking about it and they said you were in charge.”
Cohen yelled, “Where’d you work before, as an electrician?”
“Odd jobs here and there but mostly at the new housing project in Charlestown,” said Peter.
“What’s the foreman’s name in Charlestown?” said Cohen.
“George Williams,” replied Peter.
Cohen responded, “I’ll give checks out. If you are telling the truth, you can show up here tomorrow morning at 7:00AM with your tools. In the meantime, bring a few scabs with you tomorrow to do some grunt work. We are going to disconnect all the electric wires to 39 vacant buildings before they get demolished. I’ll pay minimum wage to the scabs and will give you a cut, if it all works out.”
Peter showed up the next day with his scab workers and they began disconnecting all the electrics in 39 vacant buildings. Being a cheap bastard, Cohen told Peter to save all the old wiring so he could resell it as recycled copper metal and pocket the money.
At the end of each week, Cohen paid the scab workers minimum and gave Peter a bonus bribe. Of course, the local Mafia gang and politicians had their hand out for a share and collected it Friday night at the Fifth St. bar from Cohen.
Since Peter was still working as an undercover FBI agent, he recorded all the dealings with Cohen with a mini 35 mm camera he had concealed in his hard hat. Peter also secretly recorded any of the other payoffs he could get close to. These involved the other trades like carpenters, metal workers, roofers, and plumbers.
With all the evidence now collected, the FBI planned a sting for the end of week. At 3:00PM quitting time on Friday, the FBI raided the warehouse and arrested Cohen and all the union reps with their cash bribes, including Peter.
After a night in jail, Cohen and the others were released on bail, paid by the union. The next day, Cohen assembled all his union reps at the warehouse and told them that one was a rat and that he would find out.
However, they better get the union or local politicians to provide them protection since they were all going to jail for a long time on Federal racketeering and bribery charges, after their court date and convictions.
If convicted, they could get 20 years in prison and pay up to $100,000 in penalties. The federal RICO (Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organization Act) was founded in 1970 to prosecute organized crime.
At the end of the week, I met with Harry Wong at Murray and Eddie's Deli on Broadway for a late lunch and had a Pastrami on Rye with some chips and a bottle of Bud.
“Harry said, “Thanks to you, we gathered enough bribery info to put Cohen away for a long time.”
I said, “I just gathered some preliminary evidence. It was the FBI that set the trap and did most of the work.”
***
After leaving Harry, I decided I needed a hot bath to loosen my muscles from all the tension and a great place for that was Dillon’s Russian Baths on the corner of Williams and Chestnut Street. Dillon’s was the oldest steam bath in the United States.
Wasting no time, I drove my 1969 metallic blue Chevelle to Dillon’s located at 77 Chestnut and parked in the back. So that no one would disturb the car, I put one of my many official parking permits on the dashboard and went inside. The permit read, Russian Orthodox Priest Visiting.
Luckily, I had made an appointment to get a Schvitz at the Russian Baths, which is an oil rubdown with hot soapy water. The masseur uses a broom with oak leaf branches and sweeps it on your back and thighs to get the blood flowing and the toxins out of your pores.
Hot water has always had a therapeutic effect on the body. The heat from the fiery hot granite rocks in the steam room relieves all the built-up tensions and stress. The upper benches were nearly 180 degrees as you sat on a wet towel and got temporary relief by dipping a sponge in a bucket of cold water and ringing it over your head.
***
After Cohen got released on bail, he needed a drink and rushed over to the Fifth Street Bar and gulped down two shots in a few seconds. The bartender slipped Cohen a note that read ….. ‘Meet Tony Sparsa at the warehouse at 5 Second Street tonight at 9:00 PM. Don’t be late.’ Tony Sparsa, was the local Mafia boss in Chelsea and took the weekly payoffs for all illegal activity in the city.
Cohen showed up at exactly 9:00 PM at the warehouse which was now dark. Suddenly the lights came on and Cohen saw Sparsa and walked toward him. He could also see his musclemen standing off to the side.
Cohen went to say something and Sparsa raised his hand to stop. Cohen liked to be in control of the conversation but knew when to shut up.
Sparsa said, “Yous’know this is my turf and now you brought in the feds and fuck’d it all up. Cuz of you, they go’n be snoop’n round and look’n up everyone’s ass. I can’t have that. There are too many things they can find out.”
Cohen said, “I didn’t bring them here. There must be a rat in my work crew.”
“Yea, but you didn’t catch the rat before the fox showed up,” replied Sparsa.
“Now just like the church says, you committed a sin, and yous have to say a prayer for penance. So close your eyes and say ten Hail Marys,” said Sparsa.
Cohen said, “But I’m Jewish.”
Sparsa said, “That’s OK. Turn around and just repeat after me. ‘Hail Mary, full of disgrace ….’ ”
Cohen turned around and closed his eyes and repeated, “Hail Mary ……”
Sparsa took a Glock 9 mm Special out of his coat, aimed it at the back of Cohen’s head, and pulled the trigger. Blood spattered everywhere.
Sparsa then made the sign of the cross and said, “Amen you fuck’n creep.”
Sparsa then gave a whistle for his bodyguards to come in and clean up the mess. They entered from the far door, holding a few cans of gasoline.
Sparsa said, “Pour the gas on the body, the floor, and the walls and torch the place.”
Leaving his men to do the dirty work, Sparsa left and drove away in a black Lincoln. Twenty minutes later, the building was ablaze. Within minutes the flames jumped from one building to another, out of control.
It was October 14, 1973, and the day was extremely windy. There had been no rain for weeks. The fire quickly spread to a mile-long area, where 18 city blocks were ablaze. Over 1000 people were evacuated as the fire consumed 300 buildings.
Fire departments from 67 communities came to Chelsea to provide help. There were 166 pumper trucks and 25 ladder companies. The water pressure was extremely low and some rusted hydrants didn’t work. Hoses ran over a mile from neighboring communities. The national guard was called in to prevent looting. The fire raged on for three days, as people gathered in local bars and continued to drink with the fire close by and all around them. Unknown to the fire authorities, this fire should have been called the ‘Sparsa Fire’ and not blamed on a tinder box of rags.
***
After the fire, I met with Harry Wong at his office, at city hall. The phones were still ringing off the hook, as an army of volunteers helped answer calls. Harry had applied for disaster relief from the state and federal government to help with local aid and rebuilding the city after the fire.
I told Harry that there would probably not be any more trouble from Steve Cohen if the local gossip was true.
Harry said, “What did you hear?”
I said, “I heard at the Fifth Street bar that Cohen had found his maker and that the local Mafia gave him a free ticket to the grave. They blamed him for causing an FBI-RICO investigation and wanted to eliminate any traces to the mob.”
Harry said, “That certainly clears the air. I guess the investigation with your detective agency is not needed now. Send me a bill and I’ll take care of it, right away.”
I said, “Thanks, I’ll see you around town. Good luck with rebuilding the city.”
***
During the fire and after, I helped close friends and relatives move their belongings from the path of the fire and into local shelters. It took a few years, but Chelsea bounced back and rebuilt the burned-out area. In the meantime, the homeless moved in with relatives and other families and took shifts sharing beds. No one wanted to leave Chelsea. It was their family home for generations. Some got jobs locally and in nearby communities but everyone shared the load to rebuild their city.
..……. There Is No Place like Home.
***
As always, I went to the ‘Y’ to cool off, took a swim, did my 30 laps, got some bagels at Katz, sipped some wine on my balcony, and watched the sun go down over Boston Harbor.
The End
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Nick Ryan - PI
- Chapter Five -
*Revere Beach*
By
Mark K. Ryan
I got a call at the office from my friend Lenny. He said, “There was a death at Revere Beach and it involved one of the Marotta twins.” It was late August 1973.
Growing up in Chelsea, my cousin was married to one of the Marotta girls who lived on Division Street and I would sometimes see them at family gatherings.
Lenny continued, “The police are blocking off the street like a crime scene. Maybe you should get out here. Someone fell off the Cyclone. It’s on the corner of Oak Island Street and Revere Beach Boulevard.”
I said, “Thanks, I’ll be right there. Wait for me.”
I jumped in my 1969 Chevelle and took off down Maverick Street toward Revere. Ocean Avenue was blocked off, so I parked at the Revere Beach train station and walked over to Oak Island Street. I saw Lenny standing in a crowd and waved..
I joined up with Lenny and he said, “Nothing new. However, there are some patrolmen and detectives from Chelsea and Revere milling around.”
I saw one of the detectives that I knew and worked my way across the street and called to him. “Hey Charlie,” I said.
Detective Charlie Wilson saw me and eventually motioned for me to cross the police tape. A nearby patrolman was ready to shout at me but Charlie waved and said it was OK.
Charlie said, “On the QT, so you didn’t hear it from me. You’ll eventually find out but it looks like your cousin Ellen Marotta was pushed off the top of the Cyclone. Witnesses in the adjacent cars saw a man sitting with her lift the safety bar and toss her out. When the cars got back down, the man just disappeared into the crowd. Descriptions of the man varied but most said he had on a Red Sox tee-shirt, a ball cap, blond hair, and a short beard.
As I talked with Charlie, I scanned the area, the crime scene, the impact area where Ellen fell, and the crowd. Sometimes the crime perpetrators stick around the crime scene and hide in plain sight in the crowd.
Scanning each face of the crowd to see if I recognized anyone, I zeroed in on a man with a beard but he didn’t have on a ball cap. Instead, he had on a brown knitted hat. He probably switched hats.
I excused myself from Charlie and said, “I’ll be right back,” as I began walking toward the man in the crowd.
The man saw me and we locked eyes. He immediately turned around and quickly ran down the beach and onto one of the rides. It was the Tunnel of Love and he jumped on a moving train car that went into a dark tunnel. I ran into the tunnel after him. It was pitch black but I could see the train ahead as a fake ghost appeared along the wall with a bright flash of light to scare you.
The man turned with his gun and shot at me, twenty feet away. After ducking, I continued chasing him down the dark tunnel. Luckily there was a flat walkway along the tunnel sides with a railing that guided me so I wouldn’t fall.
I saw the end of the tunnel coming up as the train disappeared through the exit. Peaking out the exit I saw the man run along the beach road and then turn down Oak Island Street toward the train station. I continued to chase after him.
A train came into the station and the doors opened to let passengers on and off. The man had a good lead on me and was at least 300 feet away. He jumped over the train turnstile gate and into one of the waiting train cars.
Just as I got to the station, the train doors shut and the bearded man waved bye to me with a smirk on his face. The train was headed north to Wonderland station. Even if I jumped in my car and raced off to Wonderland, I would probably lose him in the crowd.
My best bet was to return to the crime scene and talk with Detective Wilson. When I returned, I saw Wilson and just asked him to keep me in the loop if anything further developed. Also, I wanted to know who was sitting within the Cyclone car and how did she get to the beach.
***
Before going home I walked back to the beach and along the boulevard. As I looked out over the surf, I remembered all the times I came to the beach as a boy in the 1960s. As a treat, my mom gave me a quarter and said, “Take the bus to the beach and buy an ice cream cone but don’t take any wooden nickels.” It was only a couple of miles from Chelsea to Revere.
I mostly went with my friend Lenny and we would carry a towel and a bathing suit on the trolley car. The trolley car provided public transportation before changing to buses a few years later. The trolley rode on a train track embedded in the street with electric wires overhead. The fare was five cents each way. The trolley route ended at Polaski Square in Chelsea. After stopping, the trolley conductor got out of the car and moved the overhead wires to the back of the trolley to reverse the route, since the trolley couldn’t turn around. The wires sometimes sparked as the trolley was powered by electricity. The conductor would then reverse the wooden bench seats. The backs were on hinges and flipped back and forth depending on which way the trolley was heading.
You could get changed into your swimsuit at the bathhouse for ten cents, which included a shower after swimming to get all the sand off. In addition, you could rent a black wool bathing suit for one hour to take a quick dip. One-piece bathing suits were required for both men and women to cover their top and bottom before 1937.
There was a giant clock that faced the water so you could tell when your hour was up, as you played in the surf. I took a shower at home so I could use the ten cents on cotton candy or a ride on the bumping cars.
Once in a while, there would be Nickel Day with ads in the newspaper and coupons. On that day, all the rides along the beach were only a nickel. As you walked along the boulevard there were concession stands that sold ice cream and custard cones, hot dogs, and cotton candy. The rides included the roller coaster, bumping cars, tilt-a-wheel, merry-go-round, and flying horses.
Loud music filled the air along with the smell of food and popcorn. Like I said before, there was the Tunnel of Love where you sat in a two-car train that drove into a dark tunnel with ghosts and goblins appearing periodically to scare you. If you were a couple, you would hug each other in the dark tunnel. There was also a shooting gallery where you shot a rifle at moving fake wood ducks. If you hit three, you won a doll or teddy bear.
When you walked by the giant clock, you would see all the old men and women with their dark tans soaking in all the sun rays as they sat on their blankets or the rocks talking and laughing. Later in the day, you would see some of the same people at the Apollo Restaurant in Bellingham Square, Chelsea.
It was good clean fun. You cooled off in the ocean, had a bite to eat and played a game, or took a fun ride. Sadly the concession stands and rides were scheduled to close in 1973, due to a poor economy.
Later that afternoon, I returned to Chelsea and visited the Marotta family to express my condolences and see if I could help. I met Maria and Rick, Ellen’s parents, at the door and said I was sorry for their loss. Detective Wilson was just leaving, so I knew he had broken the news.
I knew Rick from the Acorn Bar. He was the owner and manager and we shared a few drinks. Rick knew my dad and helped him out of a few binds with the loan sharks.
Rick took me aside without Maria hearing and said, “Detective Wilson is handling the case on the surface but I will talk with you later about some undercover work.” I said, “OK”. I shook Rick’s hand and gave Maria a hug and left.
***
That evening, I met Rick at the Acorn Bar. He told me quietly that a new Mafia boss named Tony Rizzo wanted a bigger cut from the Nigger pool betting scheme. That was the illegal lottery or daily numbers racket.
Gamblers in bars and taverns would place bets with the local bookie to pick three or four numbers to match the handle or the total money take that race track bettors placed on race day at Suffolk Downs or other race tracks. The number appeared in the Boston Herald newspaper and was called the daily number. The local bookies would pay Rick a percentage of the Nigger pool for letting them operate at the bar.
Rick was threatened by Rizzo over several weeks and refused to cooperate with the local mafia boss. The threats included a break-in at his bar, some damage to the outside of his building, and fights that occurred after hours. When nothing worked, Rick knew that his daughter’s death was the ultimate threat.
***
The new Mafia boss hung out at John’s Fifth Street Bar and the King Arthur Motel on Second Street where he took a cut of the prostitution business there. The King Arthur motel rented rooms by the hour, day, or week. The local police had King Arthur under surveillance and were planning a raid to bust up the prostitution business.
On the night of the planned raid, Rizzo was having a sex party in room 209. He was into bondage and was strapped to the bed.
Unknown to Detective Wilson, another Chelsea Detective Eddy Picone from the Vice Squad had planned a raid on King Arthur. Picone had previously taken bribe money from King Arthur and was now double-crossing the owner.
Also, the FBI was pressuring Picone to shut down the prostitution ring and schedule the raid sooner than later.
***
Since I was trying to get info on the Marotta killing, I made a visit to King Arthur to see if I could get some intel from Snitchers that worked there.
After a few drinks, I was propositioned by Sally the headmistress for a quickie in room 209. But I’d have to wait for a few since it was already occupied. As I played along, I got a message from the barkeep to call my friend Ronny. That could only mean FBI agent Ronny Collins.
I picked up the payphone hanging on the wall at the end of the bar and dropped in a dime. After dialing the number, Ronny answered and said, “Get your Ass out of there now. The local vice squad is planning a raid any minute”.
I hung up, dropped ten bucks on the bar to pay my tab, and scooted out the back door. I found my car and quietly left the King Arthur parking lot. After a short distance, I pulled into a lot across the street so I could watch.
Evidently, an Everett cop had got in a fight with the King Arthur bar manager and was later attacked with a bat by three men at the bar. Bleeding profusely, the cop drove to the Everett Police station and got his buddies all riled up.
Within fifteen minutes, five unmarked cars from the Everett Police pulled up to the motel and ten men got out with guns and rifles. They were all dressed in street clothes with no police identification. Word got out and more police showed up in unmarked cars from Chelsea. The police couldn’t let their fellow officer get beaten without some revenge.
Two policemen stayed outside at the front and rear entrance and the rest went inside from the front and back. Ignoring the bar area and drinking customers, they immediately went to the rented rooms along a hallway outback. Banging on each door they said, “Open Up, This is the Police.”
When the doors didn’t open, they busted them down and arrested anyone inside with a prostitute. In room 209, they drilled a hole in the locked door and shot in tear gas. They then said, “Open Up”.
Someone inside said, “Call the police.” A detective responded, “We are the police.” And busted down the door with an ax.
Inside, Rizzo was strapped to a bed for bondage attended by a prostitute. Off to the sides were a few men holding movie cameras and filming for a porno movie.
The cameramen quickly turned and pointed their cameras at the cops with movie lights blinding the detectives. Flashbulbs from the still cameras went off and gave a loud popping sound like guns.
Blinded and confused, one of the rookie cops began shooting which caused all five cops to open fire. Within 30 seconds, Rizzo, two prostitutes, and three cameramen were dead. In addition, one undercover cop was caught in the crossfire. He had on a ball cap, blond hair, and a short beard. I later recognize him as my Marotta murder suspect. More Chelsea cops arrived during the may lay and add to the shooting. It was like a spaghetti western.
***
Watching from the nearby parking lot, I took photos with my 35 mm camera and a telephoto lens. Within minutes of the police entering the King Arthur Motel, there was an eruption of gunfire that sounded like a war zone.
After the gunfire stopped, several officers came out and opened the trunk of one of their cars, and threw in all their weapons. An officer got in the car and immediately drove away to hide them. Unknown to the police, I was still taking photos of all the activity from the next parking lot.
A few minutes later, more cops arrived in marked police cars and ambulances began filling the parking lot. Some of the wounded were rushed to the local hospital but the crime scene was secured before any dead bodies were removed, hours later.
***
Internal affairs showed up and began an investigation. All the police guns were seized and tagged with owner names and use although the real guns were hidden. Upon taking statements from witnesses, no mention was made of the cop beating or the revenge shoot-out. All the officers on the scene lied and said that they were called by the owner for a bar fight.
After months of investigation, the missing guns were eventually found and the film I took was used as a timeline of events. I sent my film anonymously to my friend Charlie Wilson who submitted it as evidence.
Five of the Police from Everett and Chelsea were convicted and given life sentences for premeditated murder with possible parole in 15-20 years.
***
I met with Maria and Rick Marotta and told them that the suspect in their daughter’s murder was killed at the King Arthur shootings. Maria said, “Thank God he got his punishment. What comes around, goes around.”
***
Like always, I took a steam bath at Dillon’s Russian Baths on Chestnut Street, bought some bagels at Katz Bagel Bakery on Pearl Street, and then went home to my apartment at Admiral Hill, on the Chelsea waterfront. Looking out over Boston Harbor I watched the sun go down. After taking one bite of bagel, my eyes closed and I woke an hour later to a black star-filled sky.
The End
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Nick Ryan - PI
- Chapter Six -
Brinks Heist Two
By
Mark K. Ryan
It was November 1973 and the leaves were falling. I had just finished guarding a Brinks Truck for a local bank in Chelsea. The truck would show up each week and park outside the Shawmut Bank on the corner of Broadway and Everett Avenue and transport daily deposits to the larger sister bank in Boston. The pickup times would change to a different day each week to avoid potential robberies, but always at 3:00 PM.
The bank manager got suspicious when he noticed a gray Plymouth sedan parked across the street from the bank near the Strand Theater, with the driver taking photos and then following the Brinks Truck each week. It was like they knew the exact schedule. The car followed the truck into Boston and then would return to Chelsea and park at the Stanley Hotel.
I traced the car license plate and found it registered to a Helen Bradley who lived on Arlington Street in Chelsea and was the girlfriend to Sonny O’Keefe who now resided at the Stanley Hotel on 15 Congress Street.
Sony O’Keefe was the grandson of Joseph Specs O’Keefe and was probably planning another bank heist. Specs was the mastermind of the original Brinks Robbery in 1950. He spent two years planning the heist, which involved stealing floor plans, duplicating guard uniforms, creating face masks, and getting away with 2.7 million.
Unfortunately, one of the other thieves tried to kill Specs but missed. Scared for his life, Specs contacted the FBI who eventually arrested the gang. This was 5 days before the six-year statute of limitations, which would have prevented any potential arrests. Haste makes waste they say and thieves are not always the sharpest pencil in the box.
Sonny wanted to emulate his grandfather Specs and pull off another spectacular heist. Growing up, he listened to stories told by relatives about how the original robbery was executed with the precision of a priceless watch. The eight thieves almost got away with it, if Specs hadn’t squealed.
The Stanley Hotel had a bad reputation and was a frequent stop for prostitution and drugs. The hotel was run by an old guy and only took cash. However, the room rates were dirt cheap and the word dirt is highly emphasized.
I wanted to check out O’Keefe’s room while he was out but didn’t want to let the clerk know. So I posed as a visiting salesman and booked a room for one night. Signing the register, I saw that O’Keefe was on the second floor in room 12B. Luckily, I got room 14B.
The clerk gave me a key and said, “Where is your luggage?”
I said, “It’s in my car and I’ll get it later. I just want to check out the room and wash up before lunch.”
The clerk pointed to the stairs and said, “It’s one flight up.”
I was already having second thoughts because the place had a musty odor and someone was cooking fish in their room. Before going to my room, I went to the Men’s Room down the hall on the first floor and it was filthy. It smelled like pee and the toilets were all filled with un-flushed poop. I used the urinal, washed my hands, and opened the door with a paper towel and a free elbow.
The elevator was out of order, so I walked upstairs to the second floor and down the hall to my room at 14B. I used the key and it opened with a nudge. Curious, I wanted to see if the same key would open 12B, O’Keefe’s room and it did. For someone planning a heist, this was not a smart idea for his room to be so accessible.
I walked inside and saw some plans laid out on the bed, a few guns on a nearby dresser and some Brinks Guard uniforms draped over a chair. Next to the plans was a calendar with days checked off for every week the Brinks truck had stopped at the Shawmut Bank and a circle around the second week of July 1974. I assumed this was the target date for the heist. Using a miniature 35mm camera, I took pictures of everything and quickly left the room, making sure I locked the door.
I then went into my room and checked it out. The bed was unmade with folded sheets laid on the corner. There were supposedly clean towels in the bathroom but they had stains and hairs on them. There was dirt on the floor and mouse droppings in the corner. I wouldn’t stay in this room if you gave me a million dollars.
Since I could be liable for not reporting a crime, I called my buddy at the FBI Ronny Collins, and told him what I saw. He said he would look into it.
***
On Wednesday during the second week of July, the Brinks truck pulled up outside the bank and the guards went inside. The truck had made its usual stops at several other banks in the area and was now full of cash.
After 15 minutes, the guards came out. One stood back a few feet holding a rifle and the other carried two bags to the back of the truck. A third guard inside the truck opened the back door and took the bank bags from the guard standing outside and immediately closed the door. The two outside guards got in the truck and it began driving away. The Ryan Detective Agency had security men watching from a block away and followed the Brinks Truck with unmarked cars. I assume the FBI was also watching since I reported my suspicions, a few weeks earlier.
The truck took a right on Everett Avenue and stopped at the next traffic light. A work crew from the Electric company was in the middle of the intersection, at the traffic light. They were working on some electric connections under the street with access through a sewer cover. There was a small barrier work fence around the sewer with signs that read Danger - Live Wires - Electric Company. Cars had to detour around the work fence.
Suddenly, there was an explosion inside the Brinks truck with orange smoke billowing out the vents. The guards on the driver and passenger side both opened their doors and fell out on the pavement, choking and coughing from the toxic orange gas. The third guard inside the truck also opened the rear door and jumped out, choking and coughing.
The Electric Company work crew put on gas masks and ran over to the Brinks truck and subdued the Brinks guards, forcing them to lay flat on the street on their stomachs and not move.
Another Electric company work crew appeared at the rear of the Brinks truck with a wheel barrel and began throwing money bags from inside the truck into the wheel barrel. When done, the work crew moved the wheel barrel from the truck over to the Electric Company sewer and dumped the bags into the sewer hole. The rest of the work crew jumped into the sewer and immediately closed the sewer hole off with a steel cover.
Bystanders called the police and they were at the scene within minutes of the orange smoke explosion. The Ryan Detectives tried to open the sewer but it was evidently locked from inside. The FBI also showed up and began conversing with the local police.
The real Electric Company was called and an emergency crew showed up in about 30 minutes. Assessing the situation, the real Electric Company said that the sewer at the intersection was the main access point that had tunnels that ran off in several directions toward other sewers and to the basements of adjoining buildings. A blueprint of the sewer system was given to the police and an immediate search was made to all adjoining sewers and buildings.
After two hours, the search teams reported back that there was no trace to the Brinks thieves. In fact, there were five wheel barrels similar to the one used at the robbery found in the tunnels at the bottom of the sewer at five different access points to sewers and buildings. Which wheel barrel was used by the thieves was just a guess. The thieves had disappeared into thin air.
The Ryan Detectives were just as stymied as the real police and had to stand back and not interfere with the FBI and police investigation. The FBI was now in charge of the investigation since robbery was a federal offense.
***
After a few days, my FBI friend let me and some of my detectives into the sewer system to exam the possible escape route. We saw the five wheel barrels located at five adjacent sewers and building basements. On close inspection, only one had mud on the wheel barrel front tire and back supports. These wheel barrel tracks led to a building basement with a locked door. Luckily, it opened with an old fashion skeleton key.
We walked through the door with flashlights on and noticed cobwebs in almost all directions except one. Mud tracks from the wheel barrel led into the basement and stopped at a brick wall. The wall looked like it was a secret door as you could see swing marks on the dirt floor. Pushing on the wall we found a loose brick that moved and became a handle.
I pulled on the brick wall and it opened into another room and a tunnel leading to another basement of another building. We followed the stairs up to the first floor which opened into a storefront of a plumbing business. There were bathtubs, water heaters, sinks, and copper pipes lining the walls. The store was now empty with a sign in the window that read: ….. ON VACATION - Stevens Plumbing Co.
After informing the Police and FBI, an immediate search was made for the plumbing company owner, employees, and trucks. Searching the plumbing store office, ticket stubs were found for bus terminals, train stations, and airports. Evidently, the thieves split up and went off in different directions.
The FBI sent agents to all the transportation locations to trace the trail of the thieves. At each location, the tickets had been exchanged for new tickets with phony names and dead ends.
***
After a few weeks with no leads, I began thinking that the thieves probably didn’t carry out the money in fear of being seen, so they may have stashed the loot in the sewers, basement, or plumbing store. But where could it be? It was like looking for a needle in a hay stack. Maybe it was time to retrace my steps.
I got permission from the FBI to take another look at the crime scene. I and a few of my detectives scoured the area again and found nothing. Not giving up, I went back to the plumbing store basement and saw that there were three water heaters for the tenants in the building on three different floors. However, one water heat was new and a bit larger.
Looking at the back of the large water heater, the valves on the cold and hot water pipes leading to the back were in the shut-off position. There was also a square two-foot door in the middle of the water heater back. I got a screw driver and unscrewed four corner screws. Removing the cover I looked inside and there were 6 bank bags full of money.
I called my friend Ronny Collins at the FBI and he was there in 30 minutes. We examined the bags and found them still full of money. The stolen cash had not been touched.
I said to Ronny, “Take the real money out and impound it at the FBI and replace it with phony cash and traceable bags. When the thieves come back to get it, you can nab them for the robbery.”
Ronny replied, “That sounds like a good idea, but since a few weeks have already gone by, who knows when they will be back?”
I replied, “What do you have to lose but a few more weeks.”
Ronny answered, “Let’s pass it by my superiors.”
***
The plan was approved and the real cash was switched for phony money and an apartment on the second floor across the street was rented for a surveillance stakeout.
On the second week, a Hertz rental pickup truck pulled up in front of Stevens Plumbing store. Two men got out and carried some empty cardboard boxes to the door and opened it with a key. Thirty minutes later, the men carried the cardboard boxes back out to the truck and put them in the back. The boxes looked heavier from the way the men carried them.
An unmarked car followed the Hertz truck to a warehouse in Everett.
***
The thieves unloaded the boxes and put them on a table inside the warehouses excited to open their stash and count the loot.
Standing in a group around the table, they took out the cash bags and fiddle with the lock with no luck. Frustrated, the head thief Stevie took the bag and jabbed the canvas with a knife. The canvas resisted like it was woven with a special thread.
Stevie screamed at Keith the safe cracked to try his magic on getting the locks open on the canvas bags. Keith took out his lock picking tools and fiddle with the lock and finally got it open.
However, the bags were loaded with an exploding dye which went off a covered the whole crew with red paint. In addition, a load siren from in the bag went off as FBI agents burst into the warehouse with guns and surrounded the thieves.
The site was like a cartoon movie with the thieves faces covered with red paint looking shocked to see the FBI surrounding them. The FBI shouted, “Hands in the air. You are all under arrest.”
Caught in the act with the cash evidence, the thieves were arrested, cuffed, and brought to jail. Armed robbery was a federal offense and the thieves would serve a long jail sentence.
***
Luckily, my Friend Ronny from the FBI alerted me that the heist was going down and I watched from my car parked a block away from the warehouse. Sonny O’Keefe went down in flames with a red face and had failed the Brinks Heist Two in 1973 just like his grandfather Specs did in 1950 at Brinks Heist One. Like Father like Son they say but this time it's Grandfather.
***
Like always, I took a steam bath at Dillon’s Russian Baths on Chestnut Street, bought some bagels at Katz Bagel Bakery on Pearl Street, and then went home to my apartment at Admiral Hill, on the Chelsea water front. Looking out over Boston Harbor I watched the sun go down. After taking one bite of bagel, my eyes closed and I woke an hour later to a black star-filled sky.
The End
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Nick Ryan - PI
- Chapter Seven -
Mystic Jumper
By
Mark K. Ryan
It was April 1973 and I was out on Hank’s boat in Chelsea Harbor. We were just cruis’n and having a beer. The sun was coming up and there were just a few clouds in a blue sky.
I had dropped a fishing line over the side and caught a few flounder. Later, I would cook some for dinner. The fish would go great with the corn on the cob that I bought earlier this morning, at the farmers market down on Second Street. Knowing I would meet Hank at the Chelsea Yacht Club (CYC), I stopped for a couple of six-packs and some roasting veggies (corn, peppers, and potatoes) to cook on the BBQ.
Hank and I had become close friends since I got him his job back at CYC where he was falsely accused of stealing some boats. Using my detective skills, I found out that it was the club secretary and her husband that were responsible. Hank was now back full-time at CYC as the bosun mate and took care of all the club members' boats. On his days off, he liked working on his own boat and just cruising around the harbor.
We were passing under the Mystic River bridge when we heard a scream and a splash in the water. Someone had jumped from the top of the bridge, 100 feet above the water.
Hank quickly maneuvered his boat around as I threw out a life preserver to the jumper. With no response from his limp body, I dove in the water, grabbed him, and swam over to the side of Hank's boat. Hank leaned over the swim ladder as we both pulled him onto the boat.
I immediately began CPR, as Hank tended to the boat and called the Coast Guard for assistance. Minutes later, the man started coughing, gagging, and breathing again, as the Coast Guard boat came alongside. After telling the Coast Guard what we saw, they carried the man on a stretcher to their boat and then to a waiting ambulance at the CYC dock. Although the jumper tried to commit suicide, he probably only suffered a few broken bones.
Still shaken from the excitement, we motored over to Hank's slip at the CYC and decided to eat lunch there rather than floating around in the harbor which was now busy with other boaters. Within a few minutes, we had the fish and veggies on the grill and sipped some beer while we waited for dinner. When all was ready, we chowed down like we hadn't eaten for days. The smell and taste of fresh fish were a meal fit for kings.
After dinner, some of our CYC boat buddies came by the dock to congratulate us and get the true story. They wanted to meet the local heroes and gather the gossip so they could spread it to the world. Unfortunately, there had been a rash of jumpers from the Mystic and other bridges in New York and San Francisco. Committing suicide was an easy way of solving life's problems and the bridge provided a ready method.
The Mystic River Bridge was built in 1950 and was constantly in need of maintenance. The work crews would start at one end and within a few years start over. Chipping the old paint off with noisy jackhammers and then repainting exposed steel with new orange lead paint to prevent rusting was the routine. After some cars and houses under the bridge got splashed with rust, paint chips, and orange paint, the workers suspended canvas tarps beneath the work areas to catch the debris.
***
The original work on building the Mystic River bridge in 1948-1950 was done by ironworkers mostly of American Indian descent from the Mohawk tribes of central New York. They helped build bridges and buildings across the country from the Golden Gate to the Brooklyn Bridge, to the New York skyscrapers. They could walk the high iron beams with no fear, putting one foot in front of another. Many claimed it was due to their inherent warrior bravery.
Years later, as maintenance on the bridge was needed, more Mohawks gravitated to the jobs and continued to be a large percentage of the painters on the bridge in the 1970s. After a day of tedious bridgework, the workers would stop for a few drinks at the local bars in Chelsea and see which of their buddies could walk a straight line, after getting plastered.
The local patrons began to hate the Indian's boisterous behavior which boiled over to become racial tension and hatred for the so-called "savages". In response to the Indians taking over the local watering hole, a group of patrons decided to teach the so-called savages a lesson at Gay's Cafe. The cafe bar was on the corner of Spruce and Summer Streets in Chelsea.
One night after closing, a gang of six local white men met two of the Mohawks outside Gay's Cafe and quickly tied them up and blindfolded them. Throwing them into the back of a car, they drove to the top of the Mystic River bridge, just before the toll booths, and parked next to the railing.
It was midnight with almost no traffic. The local white men kept the red men’s hands tied behind their backs and took off their blindfolds. One of the white men, Peter dared the savages to walk the railing for ten feet, one after the other. He then promised that If they walked ten feet, they were free to go.
The Indians were regulars at Gay's Cafe. One was tall with a scar on his right cheek and a ponytail tied with some colorful beads. The other was shorter in height and wore bone Earrings and had wild horse tattoos on his arms. Their nicknames were Scar and Horse respectively.
The Indians had been drinking all night and were in no condition to attempt walking on bridge railings. However, Peter and the local bar patrons forced Scar to the top of a sand barrel next to the railing and threatened him to start walking or his friend Horse would be thrown over the railing.
Knowing that the white man always lied, Scar had no choice but to comply and hope for the best. Scar stepped off the barrel and onto the railing with two feet. His head was still spinning around from drinking too much. Concentrating, his head cleared and he regained his balance and began walking. One step, then two, then three….
The local white men screamed and hissed and dared him to slip. Calling out racial slurs, “You red savages, dirty scum, scabs, job thieves.”
After taking ten steps, Scar jumped to the bridge surface and said, “Set us both free. I proved I could do it.”
Peter the white leader said, "Not yet, your buddy is going to do it next, but instead walk backward."
Scar said, “You promised to set us free but I knew that white men always tell lies. You will never set us free.”
At that moment, Scar looked at the other Indian and said, “Now.”
Both Indians, bent forward compressing their abdomen, and then pulled their arms under their rear to their front while sitting on the ground and jumped up. With their hands still tied but now in front of them, they each grabbed one of the six white men around the neck and began choking them.
Scar shouted, "Your friends will be dead in three seconds if you don't do exactly what I say. Start walking south to the toll booth with your hands in the air and leave your car keys on the pavement with a jackknife."
The four white men screamed, “OK, but don’t kill our friends.”
Peter threw his car keys on the pavement, including a knife and they all began walking toward the toll booths.
Scar, let go of his assailant who dropped unconscious to the pavement but still alive. He quickly picked up the knife and cut the rope off his hands and Horse's hands. He then picked up the keys and with the help of Horse, threw the unconscious white men into the back of the car. He started the car, made a U-turn, and drove the car down the on-ramp, back to Chelsea.
They drove to the police station and forced the white men to confess what they had done or they would be later tortured. Of course, the police Sargent who was manning the night desk, didn't believe the story and accused the Indians of coercion and threatened to arrest them for assault.
The Indians looked at the white men with daggers in their eyes and the white men continued to verify what they had done. Not knowing who was telling the truth, the police put all four men in jail and charged them with being drunk and disorderly, and kept them overnight to sleep it off.
**/*
The next day, the men were released and went back to work. After telling their Indian friends what had happened, their friends told them to go back to Gay’s Cafe and tell the bar owner Big Al the story and ask for his help.
After work, they entered Gay's Cafe and saw some of their assailants sitting at the bar. Trying to avoid conflict, Scar and Horse went to the opposite end of the bar and asked to talk with big Al who was in the back getting supplies. Little Ed, the owner's son was washing glasses in the sink and refilled patrons beer glasses if there was no one else tending the bar. After he refilled a few beer glasses he would sip the suds that dripped on his hands.
Big Al came out of the backroom and saw little Ed licking his hands. He looked at little Ed and said, "If your mother sees you serving beer, your rear-end will be red for a week and I'll be in the dog house."
Scar then motioned to Big Al quietly and whispered, "Can we talk privately?” Al motioned to the waitress Mary to tend the bar for a few minutes. She was gathering glasses at tables and wiping them down. Al motioned to Scar and Horse to come into his office in the back. With no one looking, Little Ed continued to catch the drips from the tap and lick the beer suds off his hands.
After Scar told his story to Al with some collaboration from Horse, Al said, “It’s obvious that the police are not siding with you, so I suggest you get help elsewhere. I think I know just the guy you want, Nick Ryan. He is a (PI), private investigator and has helped me out several times with unruly patrons. I’ll give him a call and you can meet.”
After Big Al, Scar and Horse came out of the backroom, Peter taunted Scar by saying, "Can't fight your own battles. You need help from daddy."
At that, Scar ran over to Peter and said, “One on one outside. You little chicken shit. Right now.”
Big Al quickly came over and separated the two and said, “Stay away from each other or leave right now or I’ll call the cops and you will both end up in the slammer again.”
The two men walked back to opposite ends of the bar and ordered another beer. Within an hour, Nick Ryan showed up and talked with Al and Scar. As they talked, Peter kept looking at them but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Eventually, Peter and his crew left.
***
The next day Nick hired some wrestling buddies to meet Peter outside Gay's Cafe before he went inside. The wrestlers had big necks and giant arms like Pop Eye. They grabbed Peter by the neck and threw him in the back of an old Ford Pickup. After tying his hands and feet and securing him to the truck floor, they drove out to a pig farm in Revere. After parking the truck, they stopped at a pig coral and pulled Peter out of the truck.
One of the Wrestlers, known as Killer Kowalski, grabbed Peter and pulled off his shoes. He then grabbed Peter by the neck and balanced him with bare feet on a greased telephone pole. The pole went across the middle of a 20-foot square pigpen. Below the greased pole, the pigs snorted and sloshed around in the swill and pig poop that was at least a foot deep.
With Peter’s hands still tied, Kowalski said, “Walk along the pole to the other side and you can go free just like you told your two Indian friends. If you fall in, you have to start all over again.”
With fear in his eyes, Peter cried out, “This is ridiculous. I can’t do this with bare feet on a greased pole. Plus I’ll get soaking wet and covered with swill.”
Kowalski laughed and replied, "That's the point. You will have the smell of pig shit on you for a month. It never washes off. It gets up your nose and you smell it in your sleep. So you better not fall in. Get moving or we'll throw you headfirst into the slop"
With trepidation, Peter began walking and took one step, then two, and oops. He slipped and splashed in the slop and muck. Completely covered with swill, and pig poop from head to toe, he cried, "OK, I learned my lesson, let me clean up."
Kowalski said, "Don't you remember what I said before? If you fall, you have to start all over. So, start over again."
Kowalski had a long rope attached to Peter and vigorously yanked him back to the beginning of the greased pole and balanced him to start again. After a few steps, Peter slipped and sploshed in the slop again. After starting over five times, Kowalski pulled Peter out of the Pig Pen and hosed him down to wash off most of the crap.
With Peter whimpering, they tied him into the truck bed and dropped him back at the Gay Cafe in Chelsea. It was now 9 PM and three hours from the time they first picked him up. Peter stumbled into the Tavern, reeking with pigpen odor.
He stumbled over to the bar and demanded a whiskey on the rocks. Big Al said, “Where the Christ have you been? You smell like shit.”
Peter mumbled, “I slipped and fell.”
Nick and Scar were at the other end of the bar playing cards. When they saw Peter and smelled the lingering cloud that now permeated the place, they couldn't stop laughing. Nick yelled to Peter at the other end of the bar, “I guess I know where they got that saying, ‘When Pigs Fly’ - Because one just flew in.” Of course, Nick already knew what his wrestler buddies were going to do when he hired them to capture Peter and give him a taste of his own medicine. However, it was in clean fun and didn’t involve falling off a bridge to your death.
***
Like always, I took a steam bath at Dillon’s Russian Baths on Chestnut Street, bought some bagels at Katz Bagel Bakery on Pearl Street then went home to my apartment at Admiral Hill, on the Chelsea waterfront. Looking out over Boston Harbor I watched the sun go down. After taking one bite of bagel, my eyes closed and I woke an hour later to a black star-filled sky.
.
The End
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